On Sundays he takes to the woods
where every mortal step pushes
countless acorns closer to a life of their own.

Nor can he enumerate the odds,
chances and possibilities that float past
on their golden sails. Maybe

this slow death (his slow death)
occurs law by law. Surely
no divine hand separates stem

from twig, one by one, or his life
one day at a time shorter.
With his whole heart he has faith

in winter, that monochromatic season
mostly blue. With a sliver of what
some would call soul, all this light

falling around him fuels the great grace
that does not depend on him.
What God is greater than beech and oak,
more beneficent than maple?